A Twist of Hate Read Online Free PDF

and eat in the car on the way to your house, or would you rather sit down in a restaurant? We could go to the Galleria and check out the Food Court.”
                  “I don’t have a preference.” He wiped his sweating palms on the thighs of his jeans. “Anything is fine with me. You pick.”
                  “I know a place,” she said after they had spent another mile listening to the radio. “But one complaint and you walk home.”
                  She drove into University City, made a left turn onto Delmar Blvd., and then a right a few blocks later onto a narrow side street. She parked her Honda in front of a co-operative health food shop adjoining a crowded, store-front restaurant.
                  “We’re eating there?” Camden stared at the diners inside Thai Guyang Café.
                  Grinning, Siobhan unbuckled her seatbelt. “That’s typically what people do at restaurants.”
                  “Those people are eating on the floor,” Camden said, aghast.
                  “They’re sitting on the floor. They’re eating from a table. The cushions are very comfortable. You’ll love it.” She exited the car, then poked her head back in to ask, “Haven’t you ever had Thai food before?”
                  “No.” Camden got out of the car. He eyed something long, wiggly, pale and steaming that one of the diners drew from a wooden bowl with chopsticks.
                  “It’s good,” Siobhan assured him. “It won’t kill you.”
                  The diner slurped up the thing on his chopsticks. Camden blanched. “Are you sure about that?”
     
    ***
     
                  Dinner miraculously transpired without a single disagreement or even a twinge of discord. After sharing an enormous slice of ginger cheesecake for desert, Siobhan drove Camden home, following his directions.
                  “This is the long way,” he said, “but there’s something really cool on this street. It’s one of the most awesome structures I’ve ever seen. I spent all last summer sitting in the park across the street from it, watching it go up. That sounds lame, but it’s an amazing house.”
                  He directed her to a contemporary aberration among the stately, World’s Fair-era brick mansions lining the long expanse of Lindell Boulevard facing Forest Park. “This is it.” He pointed to a boxy mansion of broad white stone. Cobalt lighting fixtures heightened the stark whiteness of the ultra-modern building. A silvery-blue column of glass cubes towered from the black pavement of the driveway to the angled roof. The column separated a six-car garage from the house. The first floor wall, all one-way glass, reflected passing cars and the greenery of the park.
                  “This house is unbelievable,” Camden said, awed anew.
                  “It’s mine.”
                  He abruptly turned to her. “There were two huge articles about this house in the newspaper last year,” he said. Siobhan smiled at his uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “The first article came out when the house was designed, and the second ran after when it was finished. I’ve admired this house from the day the foundation was poured to the day the street numbers were applied. Your dad is Damon Curran? The architect?”
                  “That’s him.” Siobhan pulled into the driveway.
                  “I heard his interview on NPR about that industrial park he designed in London. That’s why you were living there, right? I knew Damon Curran planned to live in this house, and he mentioned he had a daughter… Damn, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t make the connection.” He turned back to the house. “Its lines are so clean. The design is bold but elegant at the same time. Your dad is an